


i'd give up forever to touch you ('cause i know that you feel me somehow)

by FanaticDomainExpert



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: A Physicist???, And Probably Doesn't Understand The Theory She's Writing About, As In The Author Is Full Of Dumb Bitch Juice, But What Do I Look Like, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Science, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, It's Sad Gay Hours Up In Here Leave Me Alone, M/M, Mild Blood, POV Second Person, Poetry, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanaticDomainExpert/pseuds/FanaticDomainExpert
Summary: He begs you to go.You let him go in your stead.Or: Achilles, before, during, and after.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 92





	i'd give up forever to touch you ('cause i know that you feel me somehow)

You have been given a box.

Inside, you are told, is a cat.

You don’t know if it’s alive or dead, but

You are told that there is a cat, and it is in this box 

There is nothing that suggests a cat is even _in_ the box, but

There’s nothing to suggest that it’s not.

  
  
  
  


He begs you to go.

You let him go in your stead. 

  
  
  
  


You have a box, and inside is a cat.

Well.

There is a box, yes; there is a cat, yes.

There is also a vial of poison.

A bit of radioactive material.

And a hammer.

Perhaps the radiation will cause the hammer to strike the vial, and the cat will die.

Perhaps the hammer will never break the glass.

  
  
  
  


This is what happens if you give a boy a prophecy, you think.

This is what happens when you goad a man to war.

  
  
  
  


You know that the longer the cat stays in the box, the more likely it is to die.

But you don’t know how long it was in the box before it was given to you, 

Or if you are the only one who’s had the box, and was it opened before? 

Does any of this matter?

You don’t know if it matters.

There are so many things you don’t know,

  
  
  
  


Your hands, fastening your armour onto his shoulders.

If he must go, then let me offer him this, you think.

You are good with your hands.

  
  
  
  


The charge towards Troy looks like the tide coming in.

  
  
  
  


You are holding a box.

He should be back by now.

It holds a cat, a vial of poison, and radioactive material.

You shield your eyes with your hand and scan the horizon again.

If you don’t open it, the cat is alive.

Patroclus, where are you?

If you don’t open it, the cat is dead.

  
  
  
  


Where are you?

  
  
  
  


You are given a box, and a prophecy, and a boy with freckles who calls himself yours.

You are given your strength, and your heart, and the promise of godhood.

You are given an ultimatum.

What will you choose?

  
  
  
  


Open the box.

  
  
  
  


This is what you know: how to block and how to parry and how to slash and hack and tear into your opponents without sweat; the hefty weight of sword swinging through air; the steady thumping of your lover’s heart as the ocean breeze carries you to sleep.

This is what you know: you would do anything for him.

And this: except that.

  
  
  
  


You open the box, and inside, there is a cat.

And inside, there is-

  
  
  
  


A fight for a body.

Tousled hair under bloodstained cloth.

Bowed heads.

Averted eyes. 

And then, someone screams.

Grief is so unbearably loud, you think, as you sink down into the din.

  
  
  
  


Time moves forward, and it does not.

And you move forward, and you do not.

  
  
  
  


Oh. The screams are yours.

  
  
  


Your cat inside the box is dead.

  
  
  
  


He’s dead, and _you’re_ dead, and you know nothing except him, so if he’s gone, what are you?

What are you?

  
  
  
  


You are Achilles, without brethren.

Achilles, without battle.

Achilles, without beloved.

You are Achilles.

You are unmoored. 

And you are so, _so_ angry.

  
  
  
  


A promise: you will kill Hector for killing Patroclus. You will drag his body from Troy and you will strap it to your chariot and he will stain the sand red.

You will kill Hector. And then you will die.

  
  
  
  


You will die, and it will be a relief.

  
  
  
  


A promise: Patroclus comes back.

You scream and scream and a knotted, ugly thing burrows its way into your lungs and you do not fight it even though that is the only thing you have ever known.

Your fingers turn to claws and you would dig into his skin if it would keep him here, but

His body has only ever known your gentle touch, and so you curl your claws into your own palm instead.

You do not sleep.

  
  
  
  


You have never begged for anything, but you think you would beg for this: an end to the sorrow 

And the remorse 

And the guilt.

And Patroclus, alive once more.

But you have taken your box, and you have opened it, and you cannot change your cat’s fate.

And you can no longer delay yours.

  
  
  


So.

A promise.

You cannot die.

Not until Hector dies.

  
  
  
  


And he does.


End file.
